


Kinda Good, Which Sucks

by zahnie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Buffy the Vampire Slayer References, Confinement, Demon Meg Masters, F/M, Fix-It, Healing, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Meg Masters Lives, Needles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Meg Masters, Post-Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, Pre-Castiel/Dean Winchester, Rescue, Spells & Enchantments, Trials of Hell (Supernatural), crowley is also here for about 30 seconds but no speaking lines means no mention, just to be absolutely clear on that, one-sided castiel/meg masters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29975451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zahnie/pseuds/zahnie
Summary: Just before Crowley would have killed her, Meg is rescued by the Winchesters. It isn't really surprising that they don't know what to do with her afterwards.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Meg Masters, Meg Masters & Sam Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Kinda Good, Which Sucks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenmonstermash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenmonstermash/gifts).



> Set from the last few minutes of 8.17 "Goodbye Stranger" to mid-way through 9.01 "I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here".
> 
> Meg fic!! Man, this was fun. I love Meg.
> 
> Pandemic note: Sam is all dying internally during the Third Trial so there's coughing jsyk. Mystical origins only, no plague in this fic.
> 
> This fic is for greenmonstermash, as are all my Supernatural fic. Thank you for your excitement at all my silliness <3
> 
> Also, thank you to takiki16 and silklegend and Laura for reading bits of this in progress! I love my friends, they are the BEST :D
> 
> [Playlist here.](https://zahnie.tumblr.com/post/643079994764083200/meg-fic-playlist) Enjoy!

One minute, she's taunting Crowley, trying to make sure he's angry enough to kill her instead of taking her back to be tortured. The next, the Impala is rocketing backwards, headed straight for them.

With the last of her strength, Meg shoves Crowley towards the speeding car, breaking his grip on her. His eyes go wide and he vanishes. Pity. She would've liked to see him run over.

The back bumper of the car stops inches from her trembling knees, so close that Meg can feel the devil's trap in the trunk.

Sam sticks his head out the window. “Get in!” he calls.

Meg doesn't hesitate. She wrestles the back door open and throws herself in. Dean guns it forward almost before she has a chance to close the door.

Meg turns around and sees Crowley standing there alone in the parking lot. She grins.

“Are you okay?” Sam asks.

That's just hilarious. “Maybe. Where are we going?” Meg asks, settling into her seat. “If you're gonna torture me too, I'd just as soon go back.” Pure bravado, obviously, but she's too exhausted now to fight with anything except words.

Sam looks hurt for a split second.

“Don't tempt me,” Dean says.

“But that's my purpose in life,” Meg drawls. Dean _reeks_ of angelic grace, Castiel's specifically. Something definitely went down in the crypt. She'll save that tidbit to throw in his face later. She's always been good at timing like that.

Sam snorts. “You might need to find a new one.”

Meg rolls her eyes in answer and Sam turns back around. He's right, which is the worst. She's been reeling existentially since the apocalypse. Inflating the importance of smaller goals got Meg into some pretty weird situations, like babysitting crazy Castiel in a hospital for months. Nothing is ever going to top that. She was ready to sacrifice herself just now to buy the Winchesters time, for fuck's sake. What sane demon would do that?

Pain makes her introspective. Meg lies down on the back seat, listening to the engine rumble like the car is breathing. She's too tired to figure out what hurts the most. It can all wait while she passes out. Demons don't sleep, but sometimes, you just need to stop noticing things for a while.

\-----

She's moving upwards. Well, being moved. Meg extends her awareness out just enough to realize that Sam Winchester has picked her up out of the car and is _carrying_ her. Bridal-style. What the fuck.

\-----

Meg comes to on a bed. It smells musty, like an old coat closet. She can feel something pressing in, encroaching on her psychic personal space. She opens her eyes. There's anti-demon warding all over the walls.

“Huh,” she croaks. This will be a restful healing environment for sure. It feels like an elephant is sitting on her chest.

She tries just zoning back out but the wards are pulsing like they're trying to crawl under her skin. Instead, Meg does an inventory. The bandages from yesterday are mostly intact, amazingly. Castiel does good work.

Her new wounds are untended. Stab wound in her right thigh from an angel blade, broken ribs, bruising everywhere. That elephant might not just be the wards.

The dried blood on her face is starting to itch. It's a bad sign when the minutiae of your vessel becomes irritatingly present. She's spread too thin to cushion herself against discomfort. That's why demons heal their vessels, at least minimally. Everything has to be done by will when the flesh can't cooperate. You can run a mile on broken feet as a demon but you won't enjoy it.

It takes an embarrassingly long time to get herself sitting up on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Meg is glad she made the effort when Sam walks in.

“Love your choice of decor,” she greets him. “Definitely not getting your damage deposit back on this one.”

Sam glances at the wards and shrugs. “You know, I think the original owners would have been fine with it.”

“Oh, so we're squatting? How glamourous,” Meg says.

Sam sighs. “We're heading out for a while. Do you need anything?”

Meg isn't sure she heard him correctly. “Do I... _need_ anything?” she asks slowly.

“Yeah, you won't be able to leave the room,” Sam says.

Ah, that makes more sense. “Out of the fire and into the frying pan,” she says, smiling, feeling the lines of dried blood crack as her face moves.

If anything, Sam looks uncomfortable. “No, it isn't like that. You did help us, Meg, a couple of times.” He pauses. “And we didn't do much for you in return.”

Meg waits for the catch but Sam just stands there. “So, my reward for faithful service is being confined to this room?” she asks.

“You're a demon,” Sam says, not inaccurately. “We'll shelter you from Crowley, until you're stronger. But we do need to take precautions.”

Reasonable on the surface yet fundamentally flawed. Who will protect everyone else once Meg recovers and leaves this place? The very same hunters who will shelter her here will kill her outside just for existing. This was definitely Sam's idea. “Your precautions are a bit heavy-handed,” she says.

Sam smiles briefly, like he doesn't believe her. It's flattering to be considered a threat when she feels weak as a kitten. “Okay, well, I'll check on you when we get back,” he says.

“Safe travels,” Meg says.

Sam shakes his head and leaves the room.

Since she isn't actively being tortured right now, Meg will heal eventually. She does the math on how long that'll take and groans. Maybe she can convince the Winchesters to bring her something to read.

Or there _is_ someone else she could call on.

Impulsively, Meg presses her palms together and looks up at the ceiling. “Hey Castiel,” she prays out loud. “I know your boyfriend has probably been calling you too and is on his way out to look for you but if you're feeling polyamorous, I'm in the Winchester lair, wherever that is. And you still owe me dinner.”

She holds the pose for a moment longer, trying to remember how prayers end, then lets her hands fall to the blanket.

Maybe angels can't hear demons praying. The only angel she's ever prayed to is Lucifer and she's never sure if he heard her or not. Lilith used to pray-sing songs of praise to him in Enochian and he never even responded to those, let alone Meg's much more routine reports. Fuck Lucifer, honestly, he always was an asshole.

She's working hard on staying 'Meg'. It was hard to do through the torture with Crowley and dredging up knowledge of being back with Azazel. Nice to have a goal in mind, though, other than saving her own skin. That's the trouble with being this old: simple, straightforward self-preservation isn't _enough_ for you anymore.

Being Meg is the only way she'll ever have a shot with Castiel anyway so it's worth holding on to, however slim the chance.

\-----

It's hours and hours later when Dean pushes open the door without knocking. Embarrassingly, he catches Meg humming along with the wards. If she makes the buzzing into a tune, it's less annoying. Or that's what she's been telling herself.

Dean blinks at her, halfway into the room, like the unexpected noise has thrown him off his stride. Sam crowds in behind him.

“Take a picture, it'll last longer,” Meg mumbles. Her lips are numb from humming.

Dean takes a few steps forward so Sam can shut the door behind them. Like she'll bolt out of here if they leave it open. At this point, she'd be pleased not to crack her skull on the floor trying to get off the bed.

“If you're going stir crazy, maybe this will lighten your mood,” Dean says. “We need information.”

“When don't you?” Meg asks, rhetorically. They never know anything.

“We need to know how to get to Hell,” Sam says.

That actually surprises Meg into laughing. She has to hold her side so her broken ribs don't puncture anything. “Well, I'd say you're on the right track,” she gasps out between giggles. “Heaven certainly doesn't want you.”

“No, we need to get to Hell and then get back,” Sam says, betraying a little annoyance.

“Without dying,” Dean adds.

“Get Clarence to take you on a day trip,” Meg says. “He's at full power, right?”

The Winchesters look at each other. Sam raises his eyebrows and Dean shakes his head.

“Or are you not on speaking terms at the moment?” she asks, smiling to make it sting more. When Castiel didn't answer her prayer, she wondered.

“Give us another option,” Dean says.

She pretends to think, even tapping her chin dramatically with one finger. “A demon deal is out of the question, of course.”

“Of course,” Sam says, gently mocking.

“Then you'll have to use magic,” Meg says.

They stare at her like she just said they'll have to ride there on a pegasus. Which wouldn't work.

“Do you know the spell?” Sam asks, eagerly.

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean says, holding up his hands. “How can we trust her?”

“You can't,” Meg agrees. They will, though. They're dumb like that.

“Exactly,” Dean says.

Sam grimaces. “I know, but it sounds reasonable. How else are we going to do this? Besides, the second step will need magic anyway when I get there.”

“When _we_ get there,” Dean says, firmly.

“Why the sudden interest in travel, anyway?” Meg asks. “I would've thought you both had enough Hell for a lifetime or two.” She'd bet money it has something to do with the Trials Sam wouldn't tell her about back at the crypt.

Both Winchesters glare at her, turning at the same time. Meg almost laughs again. “ _Initium ad inferna permittatur_ ,” she says.

They flinch, still in unison. This is fun. Meg grins.

“What was that?” Dean asks, his voice sharp.

“Hell... permission?” Sam asks, like he's sounding out the Latin. How does he not speak the language? He's supposed to be the smart one.

“The words for the spell. You need the ingredients too, to make it actually work,” Meg says.

“What are the ingredients, then?” Sam asks.

Meg shrugs innocently. “No idea.”

Dean groans. “You're playing us. Just like Crowley's lackeys, digging all over for Lucifer's crypts, because you only gave them half of the information.”

“I'm a demon. I don't need a spell to get into Hell,” Meg says.

Sam nods thoughtfully. “We could probably find it. Half of the books in the library are magical,” he says to Dean.

“Bring them in here and I'll help you look,” Meg offers, just to see what they'll do.

“If we get that desperate, we'll let you know,” Dean says and turns to the door.

Sam glances around the room. “I'll bring you a TV,” he says.

Meg and Dean both stare at Sam. “Why?” they ask at the same time.

Sam looks annoyed. “Why not? We have that spare black-and-white one.” He strides past Dean and out the door.

Dean rolls his eyes at Meg and follows.

You convince a guy to tell you about his ex-girlfriend one time and suddenly, you're BFFs with a Winchester. Ridiculous. He'll be fluffing her pillows next. Does Stockholm syndrome work in reverse?

Sam comes back a few minutes later with his arms wrapped around a TV that looks like it should be in a museum.

“Am I going to watch the Moon landing live or something?” Meg asks.

Sam grunts and thumps the TV down on top of the long, low bureau. It's a direct line of sight across the room from Meg, parallel with the door. He pulls the remote out of his pocket and tosses it to her. “Here.”

She makes no effort to catch it and the remote lands on the bed just out of easy reach. “Thanks,” Meg deadpans.

Sam spends a few minutes on his hands and knees, looking for the electrical outlet. She watches with interest. He plugs something else into the TV too. “Cable. Or you'd be just watching static all day.”

“My hero,” Meg says. It doesn't come out as sarcastically as she means it.

Sam gives her a funny look. “Do you want to try it out?” he asks, standing up.

Meg leans over to grab the remote, gritting her teeth against the scraping of her broken ribs. The TV turns on with a crackle. The picture is a bit fuzzy but it does work. She flips through a few channels.

“Okay,” Sam says, awkwardly, shuffling his feet.

Other than Castiel treating her wounds, this is the nicest thing anyone has done for Meg that she can remember. And she has a long memory. She doesn't look at Sam as he leaves the room.

Maybe she should give him the rest of the spell. Meg squashes the thought as soon as it surfaces. Much more fun for Sam and Dean to figure it out by themselves.

\-----

TV helps the hours blur together into a pleasant, textured ribbon of undifferentiated time. Soothing.

Meg's horror movie marathon is rudely interrupted by the door banging open. A wild-eyed skinny Asian kid stands there, brandishing a... machete? Wow.

He stares between Meg and the TV, where the heroine is still screaming her heart out. “What the hell is going on?” he demands.

“Bit busy, try again later,” Meg says.

“Who are you?” the kid asks.

There's something off about him. Meg stares at him for another second until it clicks. “You're a prophet.” She smiles.

The prophet steps back. “How—” he starts but cuts himself off when he takes in the symbols on the wall. His eyes widen. He slams the door with himself on the other side.

She mutes the TV and is rewarded immediately with faint shouting audible from the hall. The fun never stops in the Winchester lair.

Meg remembers Crowley mentioning the prophet but it wasn't by name. Crowley hates calling people by their real names. She listens hard to see if she can hear it now. The room is too sound-proofed to be of much help. Only murmuring is coming through. The prophet must've been right outside her door to catch the TV's scream.

Finally, Meg hears Dean yell faintly, “Kevin, for fuck's sake, it's _fine,_ go to bed!”

She waits for more. The hall is silent. Too bad.

From Dean's words, it must be the middle of the night. She unmutes the TV and turns the volume up a few notches, just because she can.

\-----

Time very much has no meaning now, so Meg doesn't know how much later it is when Kevin comes to visit her again.

This time, he has a bottle of water instead of a machete. Meg sighs. It's really demeaning to be tortured by adolescents.

Kevin creeps into the room, leaving the door open. He fumblingly turns the TV off while watching Meg warily.

“Nice to see you again, Kevin,” Meg says.

He flinches. “Who are you?” he asks.

“Come closer and I'll shake your hand,” Meg offers.

Kevin crosses his arms, the bottle of presumably holy water hanging from one hand. His fear is kind of adorable.

“I'm Meg. Did the Hardy Boys out there not tell you I was here?” she asks.

“ _Why_ are you here?” Kevin asks, sidestepping the question.

“Vacation,” Meg says, flatly. “I booked this all-inclusive spa environment, complete with room service.”

Before Kevin can respond, there's a shout from outside and Dean appears in the doorway. “What the hell, Kev?” he demands, his eyes scanning the room.

“Why is she here?” Kevin asks him.

Dean glares at Meg. “I was asking myself the same thing.”

“Why wouldn't I want to stay in such a warm, welcoming place?” Meg asks, gesturing to the anti-demon wards. Without the buffer of sound from the TV, they're starting to buzz again.

“She helped us out, sort of, so we're hiding her from Crowley until she's healed up,” Dean explains to Kevin.

Sort of. She took actual bullets in her actual meat suit and got left behind like a broken toy. It isn't a surprise Dean doesn't care, it just pisses Meg off.

“You're hiding a _demon_ from _Crowley_?” Kevin asks, horrified.

Dean shrugs. “Sam's idea. Besides, she's the one who told us about that spell.”

Kevin stares at Dean like he's gone completely insane. “The spell you dragged me here to look for,” he says.

“Hey, we're all looking for it,” Dean says, frowning.

Kevin scrubs one hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. “I can't believe this,” he says. He shoves the bottle of water into Dean's hands as he brushes past him out the door.

Dean looks at the water and then at Meg. She raises her eyebrows at him.

“Any more helpful hints you want to drop about that spell?” Dean asks, gently shaking the bottle so the water sloshes around.

It's a subtler threat than Meg would've given him credit for. “Why can't you just get Clarence to take you? What happened between you two in the crypt?” she asks.

Dean tenses, stilling his hands. “Nothing happened,” he says defensively, the lie obvious to both of them.

Meg snorts. “You had his grace all over you afterwards.” She knew that observation would come in handy.

“No, I didn't,” Dean insists.

“Hey, I'm not criticizing. I'm jealous,” Meg says, enjoying this more than she expected. “I'd climb that like a tree too.”

Dean stares at her in horror. “ _What_?”

“He likes you better than me,” Meg says. The bitter taste of the truth. Maybe she _is_ a little jealous.

“We didn't have sex!” Dean hisses vehemently. “Cas just... healed me.”

Oh, that's definitely jealousy. Castiel can't heal Meg. She's pretty sure he would've when he tended her wounds, if he could. “How did you get hurt?” Meg asks, trying to stay on topic.

Dean opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “Yeah, we're done talking about this,” he says. He leaves the room, taking the holy water with him. The door slams shut.

If only Crowley was that easy to distract when he wanted to torture her. Meg turns the TV back on and loses herself in its comforting monochrome world.

\-----

Though she is still unmoored in the stream of time, the next interruption feels longer in coming. Meg is healed enough to be more physically restless. She's strong enough now to pace while watching TV. The wards ache in her bones when she's closer to them so she shoved the bed sideways against the shorter wall. This arrangement gives her more floor space in the middle of the room.

Sadly, the period of peace doesn't last forever.

“Good news,” Dean announces, bursting into the room. “We've figured out what to do with you.”

Meg stops walking. Somehow, she doubts they've decided to just set her free.

Dean holds up a pair of handcuffs. “Let's go,” he says, over the noise of the TV.

Meg backs up involuntarily. They're giving her back to Crowley. A trade for something they want. “I'm fine here, thanks anyway,” she says, proud when her voice doesn't shake at all.

Dean unplugs the TV by pulling on the cord, without looking away from her. “We don't need _you_ , just a demon in general,” he tells Meg in the sudden silence. “So I'm good with 'accidentally' ganking you right now.” He draws the knife from his belt.

Not a trade then. Relief rushes through her, making it hard to think. It's an easy choice, though. She holds out her wrists. “I'll come quietly.”

Dean cautiously steps forward and snaps the cuffs on her one-handed while still holding the knife. The metal sparks against her skin, like there's electricity running through it. Can't be, Dean touched them bare-handed.

“Magic?” Meg asks, incredulous. Regular steel would hold her fine at the moment. She is still far from full strength.

Dean grins. “Yep. Specifically to hold demons.” He grasps Meg's shoulder and pushes her ahead of him out the door.

The hallway is almost institutional in its vibe. More doors than Meg expected line the walls. Dean hustles her along but she catches a glimpse of a huge kitchen as they go. Then the hall opens out into a huge entryway. There is a table with a world map built into it, some kind of waist-high control panel with switches, and long stairs leading up. Sam is waiting at the top of the stairs, leaning against the railing.

“What is all this? Did you get some kind of corporate sponsorship?” Meg calls up to him.

Dean sighs and gives her another little shove. Meg takes the hint to start climbing the stairs. She's out of breath by the time they reach the top.

Sam looks awful. He's lost weight and his arms shake as he pushes himself off the railing. “No, we found it,” he says. Even his voice sounds weaker.

Dean barges in between them. “Come on, let's go get this over with,” he says.

\-----

They drive to an abandoned church. Neither Winchester has given Meg any more information. She stopped asking after Dean threatened to put her in the trunk. Her wrists are already blistering from the cuffs and she'd rather not put up with a devil's trap on top of that.

In the end, she doesn't get a choice in the matter. There's a devil's trap inside the church, waiting for her. Dean secures her to the chair in the middle of it. “At least take the cuffs off,” Meg says, annoyed. “I'm not going anywhere anyway.”

Dean ignores her. He leaves the church. Meg looks around at the old, bare walls. It isn't really an improvement over her room in the Winchester lair. The consecrated ground hurts on a comparable level with the wards, though the contrast between its high-pitched whining and the lower buzzing of the devil's trap is already giving her a headache.

Dean ferries in a bunch of supplies, setting them up on a table. Meg can't see the point of most of it: boxes of needles, cotton swabs, books, sandwiches. She deeply covets the whisky bottle though.

“Are we on a camping trip?” she asks Sam, when he finally totters through the door.

He shakes his head. “This is the third Trial,” he says, the capital T clear in his voice.

“How come _I'm_ the one tied to a chair then?” Meg asks.

She's distracted from Sam not answering by Dean bringing in a generator _._ What kind of mystical ceremony requires electricity?

“Ready?” Dean asks, thumping the generator down on the table.

Sam sighs. He unwraps one of the sterile needles. Dean helps him tie a band around his arm. Sam draws some of his own blood into the needle. Why? He bandages his arm. Then, he takes a deep breath and walks over to Meg.

Only when she feels the prick of the needle in her neck, feels the sharp pain of Sam's blood flowing into hers, does Meg start to panic. “What are you doing?” she asks, her voice high and scared.

Sam gives her a weird, sad smile before he crosses over to the table to deal with something on his phone.

Dean, watching from the sidelines, is the one who answers. “Curing you.”

“Curing me of _what_?” Meg doesn't understand.

“The third Trial is to cure a demon,” Sam says, turning back to her. “To make them human again.”

Meg stiffens. She's never heard of anything curing a demon. “It won't work,” she says. She can feel his blood affecting her, though. It's going to make her weaker, slow her healing even more. And it _hurts_.

“You know the bunker, where we live? It used to belong to the Men of Letters,” Sam says. “They studied monsters. They found a way.”

Men of Letters. The name sounds familiar. Meg can't place where she heard it.

Before she can remember, there is a rush of wings and Castiel appears in the church. “Dean, I need your help,” he says.

Meg's heart lifts at the sight of him. It's the same way she felt when he rescued her from Crowley's minions. Just like then, she pushes the feeling away.

“Bit busy, Cas,” Dean says.

Castiel looks around. His eyebrows come together when his gaze lands on her. “Meg? You're alive?”

Meg swallows, tries to sound normal. “Nice to see you, Clarence,” she drawls. “Guess my prayer didn't go through, huh?”

“I wasn't listening to prayers. Other angels were trying to find me,” he explains to her. He glances between Sam and Dean. “What is happening?”

“It's the third Trial to cure a demon, to make them human again,” Sam repeats. He's holding on to the table for support.

Castiel's brow unfurrows and Meg's stomach drops. “Oh,” is all he says.

“I don't want this,” Meg says, forcefully. She doesn't want to die either and that's probably the other option. If she even gets the choice, which doesn't look likely at the moment.

“Why not?” Castiel asks, solemnly.

Because she preyed on humans for hundreds of years. She knows exactly how weak they are. “Just because _you_ have a hard-on for humanity doesn't mean I do too!”

“Okay, that's enough,” Dean says. “Let's go outside, Cas.”

Obediently, Castiel follows Dean out of the church. Without looking back at Meg. She already knew where his loyalties lay. Sam's stupid, weak, human blood sends another throb of pain through her body.

“Did you really pray to him?” Sam asks, when the door has shut behind Dean and Castiel.

“Desperate times,” Meg says, trying for a sarcastic smile that probably just looks sad.

“I didn't think demons _could_ pray,” Sam says, leaning forward like he's really interested now.

Meg sighs. “Well, you don't think about a lot of things, Sammy. Believe me, I know.”

Instead of answering back, Sam stands up, slightly unsteady. He crosses the room to heave the church door open again. He goes outside to join the conference.

Meg tries to pull herself together. She needs a plan. Experimentally, she tests her bonds. The cuffs still burn against her wrists, like Sam's blood is burning in her veins. She could probably shuffle the chair a few inches if necessary, since it isn't bolted down.

Bracing her feet on the floor, Meg shoves. The chair legs screech satisfyingly against the floor. This devil's trap is just spray paint on old wood. It's sound enough to be working but maybe she can scrape through one of the magically significant lines. Ironically, if she was just standing in it with no tools, that would be impossible. She pushes again.

The trap pulses, its noise stuttering. Encouraged, Meg tries again. When the spell breaks, she feels it deep in her chest. She sighs in relief as the buzzing stops and the metaphysical discord ceases.

Barely two seconds later, Sam staggers through the church door, scowling. Castiel and Dean don't follow him.

Meg isn't strong enough to break out of the chair, especially with a dose of human blood inside of her. But there are other ways to get out of it.

Sam sits down with a sigh. His chair matches hers. They must've originated here. Meg can't imagine the Impala with a travel trailer full of furniture behind it.

“What about her?” Meg asks abruptly, moving her bound wrists a little to gesture to herself.

Sam looks up, surprised. “Her?”

“I'm a demon,” Meg reminds him. “This body isn't mine. What about _her_?”

That hits home, judging from Sam's stricken expression. How could he not think of that? Maybe Sam forgets on purpose, to pretend he and Dean aren't killing humans along with demons all the time. Throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

“She's still there?” Sam asks.

“Where else would she be?” Meg asks.

“Dead,” Sam says. His eyes narrow. “After being tortured for a year. Let alone the years before that.”

“That isn't how it works,” Meg says. Why doesn't he know this? Hunting demons from childhood and both Winchesters are still so ignorant.

“Besides, I'm going to close the gates of Hell and keep anyone from ever being possessed again. Even if she is still there, I have to think she'd be happy about that,” Sam says.

Meg laughs. “Not everybody is as self-sacrificing as you.”

“What's her name?” Sam asks.

“Why?” Meg asks, suspicious.

Sam starts to say something but he's interrupted by a coughing fit. He leans forward in his chair, hands on his knees, until it passes. There's blood at the corner of his mouth.

“Shouldn't you be at home, drinking hot tea or something?” Meg asks. She's seen people treat illness with tea on TV.

Sam sways to his feet to extend his reach to the whisky bottle. He takes a big swig and gasps. “I'm fine.”

He's no more fine than she is. That gives Meg an idea. “You know what would probably help?” she asks.

Sam takes a deep breath and another drink, his hand on the table for balance.

Meg waits until he looks up. She makes eye contact and smiles extra wide. “Drinking my blood.”

Sam jerks back like she punched him in the face. His eyes go wide.

“I know I'm not Ruby,” Meg continues, twisting the knife, “But it would still be fun.”

“No,” Sam rasps out.

“How come?” Meg asks.

Meg watches while Sam swallows hard. “No,” he says again.

“If it's the dilution you don't like, you only have yourself to blame,” she reminds him.

“Not happening, Meg,” Sam says, his voice firmer.

Meg leans her head over as far as she can, stretching out her neck invitingly, like a girl in a vampire movie. “I won't tell,” she says.

Sam rolls his eyes. “After all the shit I've been through in the last four years, you really thought _that_ would work?” he asks.

She saw a moment where he faltered, so it wasn't that much of a long shot. “Well, I'm here if you change your mind,” she drawls.

“I won't,” Sam says. Meg can tell he believes it.

She sighs, sitting up straight. “Well, what else is on the agenda?”

Instead of answering, Sam brings the whisky back to his chair and sits down again. Silence falls, except for the high-pitched whine of the consecrated ground.

“What's her name?” Sam asks, after an agonizing length of time.

It takes a second for Meg to unclench her jaw enough to answer. She's gone soft, having the TV to distract her from discomfort. “Who?”

Sam points at her with the bottle. “The owner of that body.”

Meg is the owner now. Crowley made sure of that. He bound her to this vessel with his inherited witch magic, burning up its human soul in the process. It made Meg more fun to torture outside of Hell, apparently.

“Do you not know?” Sam asks.

“No,” Meg lies. “She won't talk to me anymore.”

“I thought you read the minds of all the humans you possess,” Sam says.

He knows she at least read his. “Just the interesting ones,” Meg says.

A faint chiming interrupts their conversation. Sam pulls his phone out of his pocket with a groan. He mutes it, then stumbles a few steps to the table, unwrapping the bandage from his arm. Shakily, he draws blood from himself again.

Meg involuntarily leans away as Sam approaches with the needle. He stabs her neck without ceremony, one hand holding her head still. His blood burns even more going in the second time. Meg hisses.

Sam sets the timer on his phone again. When he collapses back into his chair, he's visibly paler than before, even with the shitty lighting.

Meg's fingers curl around each other as she fights to push back the pain. Moving them chafes her blistered wrists against the demon cuffs, who are unimpressed by her increased quota of human blood.

“Why me?” she asks, when she can control her voice somewhat. “Or is it just convenience?”

Sam goes into another coughing fit before he answers. “I want to help you,” he croaks.

Meg laughs. She also wants to cry, which must be from Sam's blood. “In what universe does _this_ help me?” she asks.

Sam clears his throat. “You were human once. All demons were,” he says.

He is _so_ stupid. It's kind of blowing her mind right now. “Sam, I have been a demon for _thousands_ of years.”

“What?” Sam asks.

“You already know this!” Meg groans. “Azazel was my father.”

Sam's eyes are round with surprise. “I didn't know he had children. Or that he _could_.”

“What? Not that way!” Meg yells, completely losing her temper, leaning forward as far she can against her restraints. “He gave us his blood, like he did for you! Except when we died, we became demons in Hell. Whereas _you_ just _come back_.” Her last sentence is a snarl. Even with Azazel long dead, his clear preference for Sam still rankles.

Sam stares at her. “He was making psychic children thousands of years ago?”

Meg stares back, startled out of her anger. “You didn't know that? Freeing Lucifer was the goal, obviously. And then when his children failed as humans, we could still serve as demons.”

Sam looks away first, dragging his fingers through his hair. “This is—I had no idea.”

“I thought he told you. You were his favourite, after all,” Meg says, settling against the back of her chair, pretending to be comfortable.

Sam shudders. “He killed my mother. And my father. Everything bad in my life can be traced back to him.” He meets Meg's eyes. “All the more reason for me to help you.”

She wants to punch that awful determined look right off his face. “Becoming human wouldn't help me. I'd be a horrible human.”

“We'll see,” Sam says.

“What part of 'thousands of years as a demon' are you having trouble with?” Meg asks. “I learned how to torture from the best. Alastair, you might know him?” Maybe this will help Sam see her as more of a villain than a victim.

Sam rubs his temple like she's giving him a headache. “Just tell me,” he says to the floor, wearily.

“Oh, sorry, wrong brother,” Meg says, sarcastically, “Dean is the one who knows him.”

Sam's head snaps up. “What?” He pushes himself to his feet. “Wait, Alastair? That's... I remember now, he's the demon who tortured Dean in Hell. He tortured you too?”

His expression is way too sympathetic. Meg tries to get them back on track. “I was his apprentice.”

Sam nods, sitting down again. “So was Dean, before Cas pulled him out.”

“No, I was his apprentice for _centuries_ , Sam,” Meg says, but she can already tell it's useless. She'll have to find some other way to convince him she's irredeemable.

Another coughing fit pauses their conversation. Meg watches Sam gasp for air and wonders if he'll even make it to the end of the ritual.

Finally, Sam speaks. “This is happening whether you want it to or not, so can we stop fighting about it now?”

“Is that your dying wish or something?” Meg asks.

“Would it make a difference?” Sam asks. He bends over to pull a battered laptop out of his bag. “I'd rather spend the time watching movies with you than arguing.”

He can't be serious. Meg stares at him.

Taking her silence for agreement, Sam slowly drags two chairs forward. Panting, he positions the first beside Meg but outside the devil's trap. The second goes in front of the midpoint between her and the first chair. That's where he places the open laptop.

Sam is settled in the first chair and the title music of the movie is playing over the tinny speakers before Meg finds her voice. “This is the weirdest thing you have ever done,” she says.

“Shh, it's starting,” Sam says, grinning like a little kid.

\-----

As surreal as the experience is, Meg finds watching movies with Sam vaguely comforting. He's picked older ones for some reason. They watch _Singin' in the Rain_ , _The Philadelphia Story_ , and, inevitably, _It's a Wonderful Life_. Meg even gets a little misty-eyed over that last one. Human blood will fuck you up.

The forced blood transfusions don't get easier. Sam times the intervals between them on his phone. His hands shake as he holds her still for the injections. How long can he keep it up?

Not that Meg cares about Sam, of course.

The hum of the generator harmonizes with the consecrated ground as it charges the laptop. Sam's phone chimes. Meg groans, anticipating the pain.

“We're almost done,” Sam says, soothingly. He wobbles upright and staggers over to the table. But instead of going for the needle pack, he picks up a book.

Flipping it open, Sam faces Meg and reads, “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, hanc animam redintegra, lustra._ ”

“Don't, please,” Meg whispers. She can't be human, she doesn't remember how. If this spell cures her, what will be left?

With a crash, the door to the church bursts open. “Sammy, stop!” Dean yells, running through it.

Sam's hand is glowing fitfully as he turns to Dean. “What's going on?”

“Change of plans,” Dean says, stopping within arms reach of Sam but not touching him. “If you finish this Trial, you'll die.”

“But it'll still close Hell forever, right?” Sam asks.

Dean stiffens. “What? Sam, no. You can't do this.”

“We're so close,” Sam's voice cracks a little. “This could save so many people!”

“It doesn't matter!” Dean grabs Sam's shoulders and shakes him. “Come on! Don't give up on me now!”

Sam doesn't answer. He stares at his hand, like he just noticed its pulsing glow. “Dean,” he says, softly.

Dean sees it too. “No. Let it go, Sammy. You can't finish it.”

“How?” Sam's voice is smaller than Meg has ever heard it.

Dean changes his grip on Sam's shoulders into a hug, pulling him in. “Just try. We'll figure it out, I got you.”

The glow fades slowly until it's gone. Both Winchesters sigh in relief.

“Well, if the floor show's over, I'd love to get out of here,” Meg says, her own voice shakier than she'd like.

Dean blinks over at her like he forget she was there. Sam makes a noise. At first, Meg thinks it's a laugh but it turns into a gurgling cough. Sam sags a little and Dean has to adjust his grip to hold him up.

“Whoa, are you okay?” Dean asks.

“Let Meg go,” Sam gasps. “I'm sorry.”

It's unclear if he's apologizing to Meg or Dean, but ultimately, it doesn't matter. Dean helps Sam sit down. He crosses over to Meg and cuts through her bonds. With Ruby's knife, probably just to remind her he has it nearby. The demon handcuffs open easily at his touch.

Dean makes no attempt to break the devil's trap. He steps back, his expression cold.

Sam groans and folds in half, almost falling off the chair. Dean is at his side in a moment. So is Meg.

Dean's shocked look when Meg helps support Sam is like balm to her sore muscles. “He needs a hospital,” she says, pushing her advantage. “If you boys do that kind of thing.”

\-----

The three of them lurch outside, giving their best imitation of a double three-legged race contestant. Meg and Dean stop in their tracks as bright lights begin appears and streaking down the night sky. They look like meteors.

“No. Cas,” Dean whispers.

“What did he do?” Meg asks.

Dean shakes his head. “I don't know. But it looks like the angels are falling.”

The angels are falling.

Meg stares back at the sky. Well. That's gonna suck.

Sam chooses that moment to collapse entirely, pulling out of Meg's grasp and almost taking Dean down with him. He's still breathing, she can hear it. But his eyes are closed now.

“Sam? Sammy, wake up,” Dean calls, crouching beside Sam.

Meg kneels down on the other side. She heaves Sam's giant arm back over her shoulders. “Just about in the car,” she pants. She really doesn't have the energy for heavy lifting, not after all that human blood.

By the light cast by falling angels, Meg sees Dean's raised eyebrows. He waits until they've shoved Sam into the back seat before he asks the inevitable question, “Why are you helping?”

“I have so much of your brother's blood inside of me, I must practically be a Winchester by now,” Meg snaps. “It comes with a martyr complex, very inconvenient.” She walks around to the other side of the car. “I'll monitor Sam, you drive.”

Dean still spends almost the whole drive to the hospital looking anxiously in his rear view mirror. Meg's eyes keep getting caught by the falling angels. She hopes Castiel is okay.

It's a foolish, human sort of hope. Meg props Sam up with his head resting on her shoulder. His floppy hair brushes against her face. She hopes he'll be okay too.

As the Impala roars along the highway at truly terrifying speeds, Meg starts the long, long process of healing herself from the taint of Sam's human blood.

\-----

“You are _terrible_ at brainstorming,” Meg marvels, after listening to Dean go in circles for at least an hour, as they sit at Sam's hospital bedside. Day is breaking outside and he hasn't had a single good idea. It might be a new record. “As another antihero with a bad dye job said, 'This is the crack team that foils my every plan? I am deeply shamed.'”

Dean raises his head from where he's been slumped in despair. “Did you just compare yourself to Spike from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_?”

“I feel a sort of spiritual connection to him, yeah. More season 4 or 5, less season 2.” Though Meg can see the appeal of Spike and Drusilla.

“So, Cas is Buffy in this scenario?” Dean asks.

Meg rolls her eyes. “Dean, come on. If anybody is Buffy in this scenario, it's you.”

Dean shrugs. “I can see it,” he admits. “Buffy kicks ass.”

Meg smiles and slams the metaphor home. “Cas is Angel, obviously.”

Like he's trying to reboot his brain, Dean blinks rapidly. He runs one hand over his hair. “Sure, whatever,” he says.

“Don't you want to know my reasoning?” Meg asks, sweetly.

Dean is saved by a nurse bustling in. She frowns at them.

“Any news?” Dean asks, standing up quickly.

“Mr. Dougherty should be resting,” the nurse says. She grabs Sam's chart up to glare at it.

“He's in a coma,” Meg says dryly, pretending she doesn't care. “He's definitely resting.”

Dean shoots Meg a poisonous look, then turns back to the nurse. “What can we do?”

She looks up at him, her expression softening slightly. “Let us take care of him,” she says.

Dean steps back as the nurse checks Sam's machines and his pulse. She doesn't say anything else but pulls the door most of the way closed as she leaves.

“Cas said Sam is damaged in ways even he can't heal,” Dean says, his eyes fixed on Sam.

Meg was there when Castiel said it. She snorts. “Oh yeah, _even him_ , a soldier of Heaven.”

Dean stares at her. “What do you mean? Cas has healed us a bunch of times.”

“Does he ever do more than just shove angelic grace at you?” Meg asks. “It's battlefield first aid, genius, like you do. And _you_ use whisky as a disinfectant.”

“So, what, we need an angel doctor?” Dean asks.

“Or a witch or a magical object or something like that. Even a demon might be able to help, if you made it worth their while.” She shakes her head before he can even ask. “ _Not_ me.”

“You can't even heal yourself,” Dean says.

She can, she's been working on it for hours. Human blood takes forever to get rid of, like a really stubborn stain.

Dean stares at Sam's unconscious body some more, not even noticing that Meg didn't answer.

\-----

An eternity or two later, a cell phone rings. Dean glances at the call display, frowns, and answers, “Who is this?” His eyes widen. “Cas, what the hell's going on?”

Something jumps inside Meg's chest. Castiel. But why is he calling instead of flying?

“Okay, that's great but we've got ourselves a problem,” Dean says.

“What happened?” Meg asks.

Dean gestures for her to be quiet. “Sam. He's in a coma,” he says into the phone. “Have you heard my prayers? I've been praying to you all night.”

He has? Meg didn't hear him. Is it even praying if you aren't saying words out loud? Isn't that just thinking? “Let me talk to him,” she says.

Dean turns away, covering his free ear with one hand. “Metatron did what?” he demands.

Meg's had enough of this. She uses her best mom-voice. “Dean Henry Winchester, you give me that phone right now!”

Dean's head snaps around. Meg grabs for the phone. He fends her off with an elbow to her face. “One sec, Cas, Meg is—oof!” Dean starts to say, then grunts as Meg kicks him as hard as she can. “Okay, okay! I'm putting him on speaker.”

“Meg is there with you?” Castiel's faint, rumbling voice asks as Dean holds the phone out between them.

“Hi Clarence,” Meg says. “Wish you were here.”

Castiel sighs. “Me too,” he says fervently.

“What happened?” Meg asks again.

“Yeah, repeat it to me too, Cas, I didn't hear most of what you said,” Dean says, glaring at Meg.

“Metatron tricked me. It was a spell, not angel trials. He...” Castiel pauses. “He took my grace.”

“What?!” Meg and Dean cry at the same time.

Castiel sighs heavily. “Metatron tricked—”

Dean interrupts. “Does that mean you're human now?”

“Possibly,” Castiel says. “Don't worry about me. What are you doing for Sam?”

“Wait, so this spell is what made the angels fall?” Meg asks.

“Yes,” Castiel says.

“Then you have however many hundreds of pissed off tree-toppers headed your way,” Meg says. She exchanges a look with Dean. “Meet up with us, we'll give you directions.”

“No,” Dean says, as Castiel audibly draws breath on the other end of the line. “Cas, get to the bunker. It's the safest place.”

“Dean, I'm fine. I can help them,” Castiel says.

“Help who?” Dean asks, his brow furrowing.

“The angels. They're lost, directionless. I can still hear them. They might listen to me.”

The Hell they will. Meg leans over the phone. “Clarence, listen carefully. I'm going to tell you how to hotwire a car.”

“Why would I need to know that?” Castiel asks.

“If you keep moving, maybe the angels won't find you,” Meg explains. “And I'd rather they didn't, since they'll kill me on sight.”

“I don't understand,” Castiel says. She can practically hear his frown.

“Oh, I'm coming to rescue you,” Meg says, as flippantly as she can.

Dean stares at her. “What?” he asks just as Castiel asks, “Why?”

“It's a big, scary world out there,” Meg says. “Now, listen up.”

She explains how to steal a car in as much detail as possible. To his credit, Castiel doesn't interrupt. Dean rolls his eyes but lets her talk, holding the phone patiently between them. After Meg is done, Dean even helps figure out where Castiel is and the best route for her mission.

“This is unnecessary,” Castiel protests.

“If you make me hunt you down, I'll probably get killed and it'll be your fault,” Meg threatens, cheerfully.

“Why would angels kill you on sight?” Castiel asks. “You're human too, now.”

“Uh, yeah, she's still a demon, Cas,” Dean says, looking at Meg oddly. Almost like he forgot.

“I'll tell you the whole story later, Clarence,” Meg promises. From his sigh, this fails to satisfy Castiel which makes Meg smile.

Dean takes the call off speaker to talk to Castiel one-on-one again. From what she can hear, he's trying to get advice on how to help Sam.

Dean ends the call by saying, “Take care, Cas.” He scribbles a phone number on a scrap of paper and gives it to Meg. “Call if you need to.”

Meg grins. “Don't worry, Buffy, I'll keep him warm for you.”

She makes her escape while Dean is still working on his comeback.

**Author's Note:**

> Why Cas is Angel: Meg's (well, my) reasoning  
> -broody af  
> -mysterious turned dorky  
> -instant sexual chemistry with Buffy (Dean)  
> -joins Buffy (Dean) fighting against his own kind  
> -hot immortal boyfriend who Buffy (Dean) can't date because ???? so he leaves and comes back all the time  
> -lots of chemistry with Spike (Meg) but it doesn't go anywhere  
> -The Name
> 
> If they'd kept talking and could see the future:  
> -Sam is Willow  
> -Bobby was Giles  
> -Jody is Joyce  
> -Jack will be Dawn  
> -'none of us are cool enough to be Cordelia Chase' is a line Meg would have said, if the conversation had continued  
> -some characters do not match at all and honestly, I'm good with that


End file.
